


Heads full of Metal

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:07:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4841852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Stanley tried to use the memory eraser on Stanford?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heads full of Metal

Stanley points the gun at Ford. Ford who has his back turned to him, busy with calculations and papers and whatever other nerdy stuff that warrants most of his attention. His name is already carefully dialed in.

"What do you want Stanley?" Ford asks. He still does not turn his back and Stanley doesn't know if it's a show of trust or a show of how little he thinks of Stanley. He can't stand it anymore.

"Sorry Sixer. It'll be for the better." Stanley says. He closes his eyes as his finger hits the trigger but the bright light shines even through the darkness. There's this sound, like something hitting hollow metal, and he peeks his eyes open.

Stanford stares at him with wide eyes that are too intelligent, too knowing.

"Did-" Stanford licks his lips, his hands curling into fists. He looks pissed. Uh oh. "Did you just try to  _erase_  my mind?"

Well, this wasn't going as planned. Stupid defect memory gun. There was no way he missed at point blank. Stanley squinted, raising the gun a little to see if there was a loose screw or something.

"Give me that!" Stanford snarls as he swipes the memory gun from Stanley's fingers. He grumbles, pulling his trench coat back to place the gun in one of his many pockets.

"I don't think I even wanna ask what that was all about. Stanford says, after his pockets swallowed the gun whole like there wasn't a thing called limited space. He pinches his nose and glares at his brother, sighing when all Stanley could offer was a sheepish grin.

"What did you do this time?"

"What makes you think I did anything?"

"Why  _else_  would you hold a very dangerous, purposely locked up gun to my head?"

"I 'unno." Stanley shrugs.

"Stanley. What. Did. You. Do?"

Irritated by the automatic assumption that he did something wrong, never mind the fact that he stole the gun in the first place- and yeah, that was one wrong right there, Stanley crosses his arms and leans away from his brother's stare.

"Nothin'. I just..." Stanley's eyes skitter, never looking Stanford in the eyes. He focuses on the back of the basement, where the portal used to be. It's gone now. Ford having apparently dismantled it between the last time he'd been here and now. The basement is emptier without it and if feels wrong. It feels wrong to have the thing he worked day and night on for thirty years ripped out without his consent.

Just another thing he'd have to forget about later.

"Just what?" Stanford asks, boot tapping against the floor.

Stanley swallows, his eyes taking in his brother. Stanford folds his arms and raises an eyebrow.

Stanley lifts one shoulder, flapping one hand while the other scratches at his hair. "I may or may not have been messing with one of your experiments." Stanley lies with ease with just enough reluctance in his sentence that it's plausible. He can see the way his brother falls for it, the steel that hardens in his eyes, the growl that almost make its way out of his throat, the thin line of Stanford's mouth. Hook, line and sinker.

Stanford opens his mouth, most likely to ask which experiment. Stanley's lie is already prepared, a  quick and easy, "I don't know. You have so many." Then they would go back and forth, circles upon circles of unending bickering and when they finish, Stanley would pack the rest of his bags and be gone.

He's already five minutes ahead when Stanford changes plans. Stanford's mouth clicks shut, his hands digging in his trench coat only to produce the memory gun again.

"Never mind," he says easy as pie, "I'll just check what you wanted erased from my mind. Stanford turns around, shielding the gun from view but Stanley can't let him look. He can't.

So he does the first thing that comes to mind. He tackles Ford to the ground.

They land harshly. Ford takes the brunt of the landing but Stanley still knows he's gonna feel it in the next morning. Using his body weight, he makes sure Ford stays down while reaching for the gun that clattered mere inches away. Ford is still beneath him, as still as a lumpy mattress, shocked most likely, and he feels the brass handle as he stretches, can almost curls his fingers against the blunt end-

Except he's flung over. His back hits the ground and the breath leaves his lungs as Stanford straddles him, panting and a little wild eyed. "Give me the gun Stanley." Stanford says, because the gun is in Stanley's hands and he isn't letting go. Like hell is he letting go.

All he needs to do, Stanley rations in the time between their next move, is reset the dial thingy. He doesn't know how, seeing as how the gun doesn't come with white out, but destroying it is always an option. Except he doesn't exactly have to the room to destroy it.

"Give me the gun." Ford commands. Stanley tries to buck him off but Ford is a heavy bastard, purposely putting all his weight on Stanley's stomach. His hands reach out but Stanley has sly fingers and a strong grip.

"Not on your life Sixer." Stanley says and the, because fuck it, he punches his brother square on the jaw. Stanford's spit flies in the air, some landing on Stanley's face- and he's glad he wears glasses because after all that's gone on today, spit in his eye is something he's not in the mood for. Stanford rears back with a curse, clutching his bruising jaw and Stanley takes the opportunity to destroy the broken gun for good.

Stanley raises his right hand and tenses.  He brings his hand down to the ground with all the power he could muster in his position. He feels his skin pinch and his arm vibrate with the force. He hears glass shatter.

When he looks over the bulb is spread across the ground in shards but the screen still says  _Stanford Pines_. The handle isn't even all that dented. Well, shit.

"What kind of horse shit is this?" Stanley asks, lifting his hand again for another round, only to have Ford catch his wrists in a tight fingered grip. He tries to pull back, to do a little juggling act and switch hands but Ford catches his left hand as well and pints both to the floor.

"That's enough Stanley!" Ford shouts, so close to his face. Stanley could feel the breaths puffing against his face, the ragged edge to his voice. His jaw was already turning purple and Stanley only felt the guilt grow stronger. This was all his fault. This was why he needed the gun to work. It would be better this way. Except it's broken now and there wasn't an escape.

Stanford's glasses are dangling between them, knocked loose by Stanley's punch. They hold on only by one ear and instead of freeing Stanley to put his glasses on with his hands, Stanford swings his head until the glasses shake free, landing a few feet away.

_The earth shakes, knocking him back. A bright light. When Stanley comes to all that's left of Stanford Pines is a stupid book and his glasses, landing a few feet in front of him on the cold basement ground. And it was all his fault, all his fault-_

Stanley's eyes screw shut. When he comes back to, Ford's still got a grip on his wrists and is asking him to let go. He inhales deeply and coughs out, his throat tickling with an itch. He shakes his head.

"Then you leave me no choice." Ford states. He lets go of Stanley's wrist and Stanley closes his eyes, shielding his face on impulse. Theirs fingers on his sides, traveling up to his armpits and they start- they start wiggling-

and Stanley starts laughing because it  _tickles_  and that's not fair. That's cheating. " _You're cheating_!" Stanley cries between fits of laughter. It bounces off the cavernous walls, creating an echo as Stanley squirms beneath his brother. Before he knows it, his fingers are loosening, his hands too busy holding his sides and defending from attack, and then Stanford has the gun. Stanford only needs a glimpse of the screen to see what he's entered and when he does he immediately stops tickling with his other hand.

That's when the forced euphoria dies down. That's when his chest feels heavy not only with Stanford's weight, but his own gargantuan shame.

"You tried..." Stanford starts, his brow furrowed in confusion. He's trying to look Stanley in the eye but Stanley's eyes glue to the ceiling, refusing to budge. "You tried to make me forget you?"

The basement is ricocheting with the air from their lungs. Every pant is like a final breath and every second is like another step to some crashing, burning end.

Stanley takes a deep breath, willing his flushed face to cool and his cheek muscles to stop hurting from laughing so much. When he thinks his face is at least halfway to normal, he growls out a loud, "Get off me."

"Stanley."

"Get off me fat ass, you're making it hard to breathe."

"Not until you tell me what's going on." And his voice is so soft and sympathetic and Stan hate it. Stan hates it so much that his fists curl but he can't hit because Ford let's go of the busted gun and pins him back to the floor. "I'm not letting you go until you tell em what's going on."

Stanley struggles for a long time but Stanford is a strong bastard. There's nothing for it. Stanley tilts his head back, flattening himself against the floor. He closes his eyes. Then he brings his head forward with a  resounding smack against Stanford's.

And instantly regrets it. His forehead, hell, his whole head hurts. He slumps back on the ground. Is something ringing?

"What was that for?" Stanford asks, nonplussed.

"What the hell is your skull made of?"

"Well it's currently protected by a metal plate. It's the reason the gun didn't work on me."

"You coulda told me that earlier."

"Well I didn't know you were gonna come barging in to erase my mind. Of you. You do know the memory gun doesn't erase recent memories right? They-"

"Erase all memories. I know."

"So then why...?"

"Why?" Stanley snorts. "Face it Stanford, if you didn't have that shiny metal plate in your head you'd want to forget me too."

"Stan-"

"It's a solution ain't it?" Stanley grins but it's all teeth and feeble at best. "That's what you do for a living right? Find solutions? Well I found ours."

"The kids." Ford states.

"Will be gone by tomorrow."  _Summer's ending._  "Just let me do this for ya Stanford.  Think of it as a goodbye gift." Stanley's grin turns to a soft smile and it's even worse in Ford's opinion. It's worse because even Stanley's lying ways can hide the pain in his eyes are the wobbly tremble to his lips.

"At least give me the gun will ya?" Stanley says. "Maybe I can fix it up."

"You're not deleting my memories Stanley.

"I won't. I'll just get rid of mine instead."

"Are you even  _listening_  to yourself?" It'd be so easy to get his brother in a choke hold. Have him pass out before this conversation can continue any further. But no, even Stanford can recognize this is long overdue. Too long.

"Hey! You're the one not listening." Stanley shoots back. Stanford doesn't move and Stanley's sick of the cold basement ground.

"What does it matter anyway? I'm leaving tomorrow. Fact is, I should go finish packing so if you could let me up-" He tries to get up but his head spins just from a gentle incline. "Or not. Hey Sixer, can you help an old man up?"

"Leaving? Why are you leaving?"

"Remember?" Stanley prompts. Stanford's lips pursue, his eyes looking up to better search his brain. As the seconds tick by, Stanley finds himself more and more disgruntled.

Stanley finally groans and snaps, " _At the end of the summer, I want my house back. I want my name back. And all this mystery business is over with-"_

"I didn't mean I wanted you to leave!" Stanford cuts in, his voice sharp over Stanley's gruff and bitter paraphrasing. "I  _meant_  that all the mystery shack stuff would have to go-"

"And me with it?" Stanley bites back.

"No!" Stanford says, his hands coming up to clench his head in frustration, "Is this what this was all about? You thought I was kicking you out so you-" Stanford's shoulders raised. His mouth opening and closing in befuddlement, "you thought erasing my memories would make it better?"

“No,” and now it was his time to be defensive. He fumbles with his words for a bit, consonants and aborted words dropping into the chasm between them. Stanley struggles to sit up now that his hands weren't pinned to the ground, wincing, one eye closed in pain. He grabs at his shoulder, the one he fronted when he tackled Stanford earlier, and took the brunt of the fall.

“ _Some brother you turned out to be.” He didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to push Stanley into the side of the console, he didn’t mean to brand his brother, didn’t mean to abandon his brother._

He didn't mean to imply, intentionally or not, that Stanley had to leave either.

"I'm sorry." Stanford blurts out and Stanley looks up, eyebrows raised.

"For what?"

"For whatever knucklehead thing I said that makes you think us forgetting about each other is the only solution."

"Face it Ford, it's not like we've had the best relationship since you got back. Heck, you can't even stand to look at me on most days." Stanley stopped trying to stand. He sat up, Ford having backed off to a close but not overbearingly close distance in front of him, and laid his hands in his lap. His frown was too large, his eyes too downcast. He let out a sigh and the slope of his shoulders seemed too large, like an impossible hill that the townspeople called a cliff. He looked defeated.

Stanford sat in front of him and decided that just wouldn't do. Already so close, he didn't even have to lean to cup his brother's chin. To guide those sad eyes to his own. "I'm looking at you now." Ford says, his eyes obscured by his glasses.

Stanley squirmed as Ford got closer, their eyes never leaving each other. Pale eyelids covered brown irises, fingers made themselves known by making soothing circles on his skin. Ford got ever closer, his head tilted, his lips parted-

Before he knows it, his eyes close and Ford is kissing him. Deep, passionate; their mouths danced and their moans made the accompanying music. Ford is back on Stanley's lap and his hips are rolling in a way Stan never thought they'd be and it's too much. Too much and not enough. He's getting pushed down and Ford's clever fingers are ridding him of his suit, bending down to whisper,

"Why would I ever want to forget this?" Ford whispers into Stanley's ears. His head dips low, burying himself in Stanley's neck to press kisses that made Stanley shiver, goosebumps traveling up his arms as it hit the cold lab air. Ford's hand travels from Stanley's shoulder to his chest to his stomach, six fingers undoing his zip.

Stanley moans as he feels a broad hand grabbing his junk.

Ford's breath is hot in his ear, "I could never forget this."

Stanley turned, meeting his brother in the eye. Ford looked back at him, his hand jerking Stanley’s dick. Ford’s face was so beautiful up close, the only mar being the bruise he received from Stanley’s own punch. Stanley leaned forward to kiss the bruise.

“I don’t wanna forget you either Sixer. Never wanna forget.”

The gun lay beside them, completely forgotten as they continue on to the night; a writhing mess on the floor.

 


End file.
